Like a Faggot

If you're new here, you should know that this site contains BDSM, kink, gender explorations, and explicit queer sex. All sex and kink acts depicted are between enthusiastically consenting adults. You may want to follow me on Twitter, Facebook, or get the password for the personal posts. This warning will self-destruct.

Warning: This story contains lots of elements of BDSM, including swearing, consensual violence, face punching, forceful cock sucking, punching, and ass fucking. The first scene (before the cut) is mostly orgasms and ass fucking, and the second scene (if you click through) is a heavy punching scene with a forceful blow job.

This scene occurred at IMsL in April 2012.

I started slowly. He was stripped and bent over the rickety—there’s no other word to describe it—massage table with metal legs and no cross-bars, as far as I could tell. I was packing my medium-sized dick and planned to plug his ass before I fucked him.

This was warm-up.

But when I got his clit nice and hard, when his hole was dripping, when I lubed up my fingers and went for his asshole, he was open and easy, eagerly swallowing down one then two then three fingers, and I knew I could actually fuck his ass, and that I wouldn’t have to start with the butt plug.

He’d never had his ass fucked. Six months of dating this little faggot and he had just revealed that little tidbit. It’s one of my favorite things anyway—that his ass was virgin was a bonus.

I growled at his ear, “Stay there,” and went for a condom. His arms were gathered under his chest almost as if hugging himself, a sweet position that made me want to plow him even more. Rubber tight rolled down and more lube and my cock head pushed open his asshole, slid inside with only a little force.

He moaned into his hand, fingers against his teeth as if I wouldn’t notice how he wanted something in his mouth. His knees buckled. Thighs quivered and tightened. I held him by the scruff of his neck, soothed in his ear, his back against my chest: “Shh, little faggot. It’ll only hurt for a minute. Relax your ass. Come on, give it to me.” He let up a little, I could feel the tension ease off my dick. “Good. Open up for me. C’mon, take it like the faggot you are, I know you like it.”

I slid in a little farther and he whimpered, gasped, sighed as I pulled out and began thrusting. I reached around for his clit and flicked my fingers over it. He came almost instantly. I didn’t back off, slid in deeper, but was met with more resistance. For a moment I was unsure if he could take this cock, unsure if I’d be able to fuck him properly, the full long strokes in and out, but as he relaxed and came—three, five, I don’t know how many times, quickly, in succession—I knew he could do it. My fingers left his clit and I gripped his hips, thrusting harder.

“That’s it,” I encouraged. He brought his arms up to grip the side of the massage table and began to push back into me, taking me deeper. “Nice. That’s good, little faggot. That’s what I wanted. Nice.” He moaned and shuddered, squirting this time, I could feel it on my legs. I pushed him back up on the table to try to keep him on his waterproof blanket.

I took him by the back of his neck again and started pumping harder. “I knew you would take it like a faggot, dirty boy. I knew you’d like it. You like it, don’t you.”

“Yes—yes,” he managed, breathing out the words hard, eyes closed as I pulled his head back, my hand reaching around for his throat.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” he barely whispered.

“What?”

“I like it.” A little louder.

“You like it, what?”

“I like it, Sir. I like it. Ohhh …”

“You like what, boy? Say it.”

“I like your cock in my ass. I like it. Please, Sir, fuck my ass. Please please please.” His pleading cries became whimpers and I groaned, my hips jerking hard against his in response.

“Good boy,” I muttered as my cock slid in and out. I wrapped my arms around him, held us together, breathing hard, and brought my hand between his legs to his clit again, thrumming it gently, sensitive now. “Mmm, fuck, you feel good. Your ass is nice and tight, feels good on my cock. I like to fill you up. Squeeze me harder, let me feel how tight you are, that’s it, yeah.” He came again, squirting, I could see it darken the blanket as his body thrust forward in contractions.

“Just a little more. Then I’m going to beat you.” I slid in and he moaned deep. He whimpered and shook, straightening his body upright until I pushed him back onto the table.

“Take it,” I growled. “Just a little more. Take it like a faggot. You can do it. Come on, dirty boy, I know you like it.” He didn’t stop shaking, barely holding himself up on his legs, and I thrust in again, and again. I rambled on as I worked up a slick sweat. I wanted to wear him out, warm him up before I started beating him. “Do it for me again, faggot. Come on, boy, come on my cock while I fuck you. Do it. Do it for me.”

He gasped and shuddered again, pitched forward, slammed his hand down into the table, and pressed his ass back against me, shaking, quivering, words pouring from his mouth, “Ohhh fuck, please please please, thank you Sir.” I held him close to me, twisted our bodies to kiss him.

*

I moved the massage table so one end was against the wall after we got cleaned up. The table ended up almost in the doorway from fucking before and I wanted more leverage, something for him to press against, though still unsure if it would hold the weight of both of us. He was still nude. I was still clothed in jeans, a binder, a black tee shirt. I switched cocks to the bigger one.

I pushed him against the wall to kiss him, taking in the musky scent of his sweat and his shimmering skin, his mouth open and tender, and thrust my tongue in. He sucked it like a cock, curled into me, and I unzipped, pushed his shoulders down until he was kneeling, his back against the wall. He lapped at my cock with his tongue, ran it over his lips until I said, “ Enough,” and shoved it in. It is not usually a blow job cock, too big for that, and it stuffed him; he coughed a bit as he tried to breathe. “Good. Show me how you do it.”

He sucked it down, good boy that he is. Took it hard and swallowed it. I held his head and pinched his earlobes and palmed his throat as I grew thicker in his mouth. He began to drool as I wasn’t letting him pause to swallow.

It still wasn’t all the way in. “Come on, you can do better than that. Suck it down. Let’s see what you can do.” He wrapped his hand around the shaft and let it out of his mouth as he gasped and swallowed, then breathed in and swallowed it down again. I brought my hands over my head and rested my elbows on the wall, working my hips to slide in and out of his mouth.

“More,” I said, and he took another inch. “More,” and he was gagging, blurting my cock from his mouth as he tried to swallow air and spit to soothe his throat.

“You’re fine,” I grumbled, slapping his cheek with my cock. “Stick your tongue out.” He did, and I slapped that too, his eyes closed and eyelids jumping when I hit it. “Do it again,” I said, and pushed my cock back in his mouth. “Deep.” I held it there, pushed on the back of his head even as he bucked a little to get free. “Good, yeah, that’s nice.” He choked again and I let him go, let him breathe two, three times before I said, “Again. Come on. You’re fine. Take it.”

And he did.

(He always does.)

I was dripping and on fire and pinned him against the wall with my cock and my thigh and my shin against his chest as I used his mouth as my hole to thrust into. My head lolled and shoulders relaxed, hips pulsed, blood all rushing to my hard-on, steel strong.

He looked up at me, a brief flash, eyes wide and watering, and opened his throat, his upper arms pinned to the wall with my knees as I used my hips to impale him. I groaned, swearing, strings of expletives slipping from my mouth, my forearms on the wall, hands on his face, neck, head, fisting his hair.

And when I couldn’t take it anymore, I pulled out, zipped back up, bent down to kiss his wet mouth and praise him heavily, and walked away from him, coming back with my boxing wraps.

He watched me, breathing hard, from the floor as I wrapped my hands. I handed him his bottle of water after I took a swig. And when he handed it back, I said, “Up.” He stood.

My shoulders felt strong, my arms light. I took a few swings in the air. “Hands against the wall.”

He turned his back to me and pressed his hands in the narrow space next to the massage table. I ran my hands all along his bare back, the contours of his muscles and bones, the shades of blue of his tattoos. I leaned in and felt the electricity of pelvis against pelvis, the spark of my cock hard and prying, and felt him relax back toward me with a sigh.

Then I started hitting him.

We’d talked about this—how he wanted to be hit, wanted to be pushed, wanted me not to stop even if he was crying or thrashing or squirming away. We negotiated, I trusted him to stop me, he knows how to do that if he needs to. I started with thumps with my fists. At first just letting gravity pull my fists to him, blow by blow falling like a hammer down onto his back. I was determined to go as far as I could. See how much he could take. I didn’t want to be the one who stopped. How much could I unleash? Would my body give out first, or could I tap in? I wanted to go until he forced me to stop. Not just with cries, but with a safeword, with a breakdown.

So I started slow.

I let my fists fall, a rain of blows. As even as I could, one fist then the other, one side then the other. As his skin developed a pink glow, and as I warmed up, I let myself increase in speed and power as if I was at boxing class. I heard the teacher in my head: “Speed! Thirty seconds!” and I counted. Then: “Power! Thirty seconds!” and I took a half step back, tightened the corkscrew of my core, and twisted from my hips to push my shoulders forward, my fists into him. I ran through various techniques: standing straight, shifting from my stomach and hips; I visualized hitting through his back into the wall. I paused periodically to press my body against his, murmur things into his ears, feel the heat rising from his body, run my hands along his skin.

I focused on his shoulders, his thick upper back so full of muscle that it never bruises when we play. Even the bites I’ve left there haven’t marked. He’s strong, and he knows it. He was gone by then, even farther than before, eyes glossy and muscles pulsing. I reach my arms around his chest to hold him close.

“How are you?”

It took him a moment to respond, soft and earnest. “Great.”

I kept going.

Blow after blow, faster, harder. I could feel sweat on my back, my tee shirt sticky. I wiped my hair off of my forehead. My eyes glazed, too, and I could see his back rising and falling with his breath as I deepened. Harder punches, one at a time, spaced out a little farther, then one-two-three-four quick ones, throwing all my weight into five. Then again, one-two-three-four-FIVE. Repeat. Again. Again. Checked in with him; he’s fine, breathing hard and loose and blissful. I experimented with other patterns, right hook left uppercut, until I noticed my breath quickening and my body tight. His knees get weak, and the next time I went in to press my body against his after a particularly strong series of blows, he nearly collapsed against me.

I wrapped my arms around him, held him close as we both caught our breath, then pulled him upright and shifted both of our bodies back to the massage table. “Up,” I said again.

When he moved to the massage table, belly down and arms curled under him, I was warm and loose and hot, sneering and urgent, head dizzy with power. I was ready to push—not him, but myself. I was ready to keep going. I trusted him to stop me if he needed to, and I trusted myself, lithe and greedy, open and taking all I wanted, to hit him just right.

I readjusted to the table height, a little less convenient for my full-bodied blows, but he was soaring and high and sensitive so the strength mattered less. What mattered now was not stopping.

Fists falling fast again, I planted myself against his ass and lost myself in the rhythm of the punches. He took and took and took. His back glowed and his skin was hot to the touch. He was quiet, hands curled at his mouth again, sucking or sometimes biting down.

“Good,” I’d hiss in his ear, running my hands along him, pressing my body against his. “You take it so well.”

In barely a whisper, he’d reply, “Thank you Sir.” And I’d start again.

I took a turn at his ass, fists first, slow and hard, but he wasn’t warmed up there and the heat in me growled at slowing down, and it wasn’t as pleasurable as his back. I started slapping and he started crying out.

“Too much?” I asked.

“No, Sir.”

“What is it?”

“It stings, Sir.”

“Ohh, I see, it stings.” He dislikes stingy sensation, much prefers the thud of fists to the slap of an open palm. “You can take it. Come on, a little more.” Of course, if he was going to complain, I wasn’t going to make him take it.

He took dozens of blows well for another few minutes and I returned to his back. Harder now, with deeper disregard for his responses. Less checking in. Just go, again, again, just feel it, the contact, the heat, the spark where we collide. He was practically shaking, starting to squirm more under my fists.

I noticed the skin around his shoulder blade starting to bruise, red starbursts of capillaries under the skin, and realized my knuckles had been colliding with his bone. He’d curled one arm under him for support, to soften the blows, but it was making the bruises worse because his shoulder was tensed. Plus, colliding with his bone was hurting my knuckle.

I pressed on his shoulder blade. “Keep your shoulder down.” He did, until the next series of blows had him squirming and curling up again, bending his head into his chest, rising up farther on the massage table.

I pushed on it again. “Down.” He half-nodded, an acknowledgement, and stretched his arms out above him to grab onto the edge of the table.

“Better,” I said. “Thank you.”

I let loose again, adding some slaps into the mix, following his body with my fists as he squirmed to get away. He started whimpering, little cries from his throat as he escaped and was caught, over and over.

And then his shoulder went back up, and I caught my knuckles on it, jamming my finger a little.

I stopped, breathed. He shook on the table, his legs nearly all the way off the floor. I began unwrapping my boxing wraps; they were coming untied, something that never happened in class. A moving target is much different than a bag.

I leaned in close to his ear. “What did I say.”

He didn’t respond. His eyes were close, his body quivering. “Rife.” I said, using his scene name, the one he said I could invoke to make him take more. “What did I just say?”

He whimpered a little in response, seemingly unable to find words.

“Keep. Your. Fucking. Shoulder. Down.” I said slowly, pulling his arms at the wrist back over his head, and hit his face.

Slaps at first, quick and light, and then a few harder ones. Then my knuckles: a completely open backhand fist that I slowly closed, getting harder and deeper and slower as I increased the strength. I flexed my shoulders, pressed my cock against him.

The table was a solid soft surface to cradle his head and I hit him harder in the cheekbone, jaw, a few more times before I moved on to his back again. Harder now, without the wraps, and some large open-handed slaps that made him squirm and curl. Then my fists again, knuckles bruising against that shoulder he just wouldn’t fucking keep down, and I stopped caring if it was hurting him or me or if it was leaving marks.

“Where you going, boy? Trying to get away from me? You had enough?” He twisted up on the table onto his side. “I can just hit elsewhere. I don’t care. You can’t get away.” Fists on his upper shoulder, hard, without warm up or warning. On his thighs, hits and open-palm slaps and a few deep pinches. “Come on, you can take it. Isn’t this what you wanted? To get used up? To be my punching bag?”

“Yes Sir …” he barely whispered, whimpering, crying out at the hardest of the blows.

Some on his chest now, he had twisted all the way up onto the table, and over onto his back. I only had to take one step to readjust. I punched at his chest and he curled into it immediately, shifting onto his side. I pulled his body close.

“Mmmm, good. You take it so well, so much. Such a show off, aren’t you.” I pinched at his nipples even as he covered his chest with his arms, punching his back again because he twisted to protect his chest, the punching his chest again when he twisted to protect his back. I didn’t have a glove on me, but I’d have to fuck him soon. My cock was hard and needy.

He was still trying to escape my fists, and I stopped caring whether my hands landed, stopped caring if I was hitting a no-zone and just started hitting. I aimed for his face, shoulder, chest, back, thighs. I caught his hip bone, jaw, shoulder blade, collarbone. Blow after blow as he twisted and turned. My knuckles ached. His face was red.

“Come on,” I said, taunting him with my hands. “Where are you going to go?”

We were both breathing hard.

I stood over him a moment, my arms on the table on either side of him, and leaned forward to kiss him. He flinched as my arms moved. I was filled up and bursting with strength and stamina. I grinned, almost laughing. He flinched, opening his eyes, looking up at me glazed, pained, desperate.

I moved to the head of the table and shifted his body toward me, comfortably lying on it, and brought my hands down on his chest again. His chest was full, sputtering, and hitting him there was slapping a bathtub of water, with spray going everywhere.

He flinched, crying out, curling again.

“Come on, little faggot. You can take it.” I pulled his wrists over his head and slapped at his chest again, with both hands. He curled again, reactively bringing his arms and elbows down to protect himself.

“Come on, let me.” I pulled his arms by the wrist again and caught them between my thighs, hoping I could restrain him and hit him simultaneously. I slapped at his chest one last time and he lost it. Split open, chest heaving, curled up on his side away from me, he sobbed. I hitched my hip up onto the table behind him and cradled his head in my arm, my other arm around his torso in as much of an embrace as I could manage.

“Nice. Thank you for taking so much. You’re so good,” I soothed. “Let it go.” It took me a moment to realize there were actually a few tears. I felt them wet and hot on my arm, rolling down to my wrist. He cried and breathed, muttering, “Thank you Sir, thank you,” still shaking, curled up, curling into me, as I held him, for a long time.

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith is a genderqueer kinky butch writer who teaches and performs, specializing in sexualities, genders, and relationships. They've written at sugarbutch.net since 2006, recognized numerous places as one of the Top Sex Blogs. Sinclair's gender theory and queer erotica is widely published in anthologies like Take Me There: Trans and Genderqueer Erotica, and online at Feministing, Autostraddle, AfterEllen, and more; they are the editor of Best Lesbian Erotica 2012 and Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica, both published by Cleis Press. Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut, Sinclair's first book of short erotic stories, was published in 2014. They use the pronouns they, them, theirs, themself, and live in Oakland, CA with their boy.